Alaric finishes his call and orders the sea bass. As the waiter writes everything down, I catch a glimpse of his wrist where his sleeve rides up. There’s a small tattoo there, mostly hidden by his shirt cuff.
Cyrillic letters. Russian script.
That’s odd. Why would an Italian restaurant hire Russian staff? Not impossible, of course. Restaurants employ people from all backgrounds. But combined with his careful English and nervous energy, it strikes me as unusual.
“Everything alright?” Alaric asks, noticing my distraction.
“Fine. Just people-watching.”
The waiter disappears toward the kitchen, and I push the observation aside. I’m probably being paranoid. Two years with Dante left me hyperaware of details that usually mean nothing.
“Klaus is concerned about the timeline,” Alaric continues our earlier conversation. “He wants guarantees about port clearance.”
“Can we provide them?”
“With the right incentives, yes. But it’ll cost extra.”
We fall into a comfortable discussion about business logistics, the kind of practical problem-solving that’s become second nature between us.
I find myself genuinely engaged, offering suggestions based on my language skills and cultural knowledge.
The appetizer arrives with flourish. It’s an artful arrangement of cured meats, cheeses, and olives that looks almost too beautiful to eat. The waiter serves it with slightly shaking hands.
“First day?” I ask kindly.
“Sorry?”
“Is this your first day? You seem nervous.”
“Ah, no. Just…busy day. Many important customers.”
His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and there’s something about his posture that seems off.
I’m being paranoid again. Dante’s legacy—seeing threats in every shadow, reading malice into innocent nervousness.
“The food is excellent,” I tell him. “Please give our compliments to the chef.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
As he walks away, I notice something else. The busboy near the kitchen has been clearing the same table for five minutes, moving dishes around without actually removing them. The sommelier by the wine display keeps checking his watch.
And there’s a man at the bar who hasn’t touched his drink since we arrived. He’s been nursing the same scotch for twenty minutes, his attention seemingly fixed on our table.
“Alaric,” I say quietly.
“Mmm?” He’s cutting into the prosciutto, completely relaxed.
“Don’t look around, but something feels wrong.”
His hand stills on his knife. “Wrong how?”
“The staff. They’re…off. Too nervous, too watchful. And the waiter has a Russian tattoo.”
Now I have his attention.
“The exits?” he asks casually, taking another bite like we’re discussing the weather.
“Kitchen entrance behind us. Main door across the room. But if something’s wrong, they’ll have both covered.”
